


Aesthetic Appeal

by swooning



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:21:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3703985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swooning/pseuds/swooning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ficlet about facial hair vs. aesthetics. Alternate title: The Rape of the 'Stache. Because that pornstache had to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aesthetic Appeal

She had tried. She had really tried. Convinced herself it wasn’t that bad. That it would grow on her. That she would get used to it in time. After all, it had been an amusing element at times in their lovemaking. But that, of course, was so often conducted in relative darkness. The rest of the time, she had to  _look_  at it, and there were times she swore she could almost see it looking back. She just couldn’t help it; she  _hated_  that moustache.   
  
And he suspected. She knew he suspected.  
  
He had seen her looking at it, more than once, and at first had laughed it off. Brushed the horrendous thing with a fingertip, twiddled the end, and gone on about his business. But lately, when he noticed her eyes were cast upon his upper lip – or more to the point, upon the thing obscuring his upper lip – he just raised his eyebrows and looked away.   
  
The crucial point finally came during dinner one night. He looked up from his plate to find her staring at it, eyes wide and slightly horrified, and realized he had a piece of something caught in the frakking thing. A grain of rice, which he spotted on his napkin once he surreptitiously wiped his mouth. She was looking pointedly away, now, toying with her fork, trying to act as though nothing had happened.   
  
“You don’t like it,” he said bluntly.   
  
She looked back over at him, just a fraction too slowly. “Don’t like… what?”  
  
He gave her his best ‘don’t bullshit me’ look, and repeated himself.   
  
“You. Don’t. Like. It.”  
  
“Are you talking about your moustache? It’s fine.”   
  
She was lying, and badly. Which meant she must want him to call her on it, since she usually lied extremely well. This bad, it  _had_  to be on purpose.  
  
“If you want it gone, you just have to say—“  
  
“I want it gone.”   
  
 _Okay, that was easier than expected. Think, Bill. There must be some more mileage you can get out of this…_  
  
“You haven’t heard my conditions.”  
  
“You have conditions?” She looked at him incredulously. “Bill, I  _really_  want it gone.”  
  
“I like it,” he replied grumpily. “It took me almost six months to get it just the way I wanted it.”  
  
“That was what you  _wanted_  it to… never mind. Never mind. What are these conditions?”  
  
This was more like it, he thought. Negotiation, getting the upper hand. Firm footing.   
  
“You want it gone,  _you_  shave it off.”   
  
“Okay. It’s your lip. You should know I haven’t shaved so much as a leg in over ten years… I had everything permanently depilated. So my skills are extremely rusty.”   
  
 _That explains some things._  “I’ll take that chance. Condition two: I get a hot towel, a neck massage, the whole works. I really miss having a real barber.”   
  
She snorted. “Do I look anything like your barber?”  
  
He looked her up and down carefully. “You don’t weigh two hundred pounds, you’re well over five foot six, you still have all your hair, and –“ He stood up a bit in his chair, looked very obviously down her top, and sat back down. “Yep. You’re a girl. So, no, nothing like my barber. But you’re here, so that’s a selling point.”  
  
“Thanks. Fine, I’ll do the whole works. Anything else, Admiral?”   
  
He eyed her speculatively, wondering just what else he could get away with. How much did she  _really_  hate the moustache? It wasn’t  _that_  bad…  
  
“Condition Three: you do all that, naked.”   
  
“No problem.” She stood up and immediately started unbuttoning her shirt as she moved in the direction of the head.   
  
Wow. She  _really_  hated it.   
  
Laura had turned the water on to let it heat up, and was now smiling to herself as she removed the rest of her clothing. Smiling because she was happy he was finally going to lose the moustache, of course. But also because of the gullibility. He clearly thought he was gaining an edge of some sort, by having her disrobe and perform this mundane task. It was sweet, really, how even at his age, he did not realize who would be in charge in such a situation. She would be  _naked_ , with a  _razor_ ; he would be completely at her mercy in every conceivable way.   
  
No wonder that blonde Cylon was so effective; Baltar had probably let her get naked and shave him. After that, he no doubt did anything she told him to do.   
  
“Take your jacket off, you wouldn’t want to get shaving cream on it,” she called out sweetly, settling a hand towel in the sink to soak in the steaming water. She found the razor and shaving cream in the cabinet, and as an afterthought, wrapped a towel around herself before gathering her supplies. Taking the towel off in front of him would have much greater dramatic effect than just walking out of the head, naked.   
  
“You’re cheating,” he grumbled, the instant she stepped through the door.   
  
“I haven’t started yet.” She laid the things out carefully on the table, and arranged a chair in front of her. Then, lifting the razor with ceremonial flair in one hand, she grabbed the towel with the other, pulled it away, and dropped it from her extended hand. The slightly glazed look of appreciation in his eyes told her she was already halfway toward total command of the situation. The fact that he didn’t know that made it all the more amusing.   
  
Bill obligingly changed seats, taking the one she had placed before her. He copped several feels as she gently wrapped the towel on his face. Then, the steaming done and his neck duly massaged, she applied the shaving cream (self-heating, which suggested several other potential applications), standing back with an artist’s eye to make sure she had spread it evenly. He had other things at eye level to observe, and he did so with a leer that made it impossible for Laura to tell whether the shaving cream was even or not.  _It’s his lip,_  she reminded herself, and picked up the razor.  
  
“I wouldn’t do that right now,” she suggested, when he slid his hands below her waist just as she was bringing the razor to his upper lip. He compromised, went no further but kept his hands where they were. Laura had other plans; she brought a shapely knee up, used it to nudge his thighs apart, then settled her weight forward on it to get closer. Not sitting in his lap, but close enough that he cleared his throat when her knee moved against his inner thigh.   
  
She pulled the skin taut above the moustache, and brought the razor down the skin very slowly, pausing frequently to clean the blades before starting again. It was the work of a very few minutes, when all was said and done, a few minutes during which Bill was mostly occupied with worrying about his lip’s safety than with making passes. A few clean-up strokes at the corners of his mouth and under his nose, and the job was done. She wiped his face clean of excess shaving cream, and pulled away to admire her handiwork. It was fair enough; her Bill was back.   
  
“Happy now?” he asked dryly, wiggling his lip a bit to reaccustom himself to the bare feeling.   
  
“Yes,” she responded simply, placing the shaving things neatly back on the table. When she made as if to cover herself with the towel again, he protested, snatching it away from her and pulling her into his lap. She went readily enough; she had, after all, just gotten what she wanted. She was now in a giving mood.   
  
“It wasn’t  _that_  bad,” he insisted.   
  
She just smiled, and shook her head. “I just couldn’t see your face. I like your face.”  
  
“I don’t usually hear that one.” He didn’t seem bothered, just resigned and a bit amused.   
  
“I like it,” she repeated, stroking his cheek in confirmation. “It has a certain… aesthetic appeal.”  
  
He stared at her for a long moment, and then said, “You are a strange lady.”  
  
“I’m the strange lady who’s sitting naked in your lap, and currently owes you one,” she reminded him, and then kissed him soundly, slipping a finger between their faces to gently stroke his once-again hairless top lip.

**Author's Note:**

> For alesia027, by request; from an idea by miryan that apparently originated with deepforestowl.


End file.
